Rpms - Billy Woods

Bucket seats

Back of the squad car, ridin'

Through smudged glass, concrete, wrought iron flyin'

Knees jammed, sea legs, dry land

Cuffed hands, mouth fulla sand

Thick, stone in the shoe

Still talk slick like, «I'll be home in a few»

They’re amused, took the right on Throop

Came down Hewes, chills like the flu

Thoughts of the box, a hundred niggas just like you

Warm milk and mayonnaise, nobodies scratch they names

Empty vessels, grindin', mortar to pestle

Moon hang, jaundiced bezel

Engine wrestle, up blocks

Radios crackle with fired shots, knockos on that no-knock

«Who's there?»

They smell fear

Front windows down, weed in the air

Brown bag beers

Grilling on aluminum foil, Summer nights, slow boil

Driving slow, just to be jerks

Negroes watch like it’s a hearse

Dug deep, gave the whole hood that Max B smirk